


the panic cord

by ghostaires (rarest_thing)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Enjolras, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, i swear it isn't all sad though, maybe?? - Freeform, therapist valjean, what other tags to i need to put idk idk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 13:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rarest_thing/pseuds/ghostaires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They met outside a therapist's office, which isn't exactly conventional, but Enjolras has never been one for tradition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the panic cord

**Author's Note:**

> oooookayyyyy welp
> 
> this is my first attempt at a full-fledged fic in this fandom and i'm terrified because this is like the granddaddy of all fandoms ya feel me?
> 
> i have only seen the musical (movie and stage) and read excerpts of the book. i'm working on getting a copy so i can read the whole thing but i want to apologize if anyone seems ooc!!
> 
> title of the fic comes from panic cord by gabrielle alpin which is a lovely song check it out!! and someone on my dash was talking about e/R fic based around this song but i can't remember who it was! so if you are that person pls contact me and i will credit you for the initial inspiration!
> 
> i was also inspired to write this fic because too often people have this idea that you can fix someone by loving them and it's just,,, not true it really isn't so i'm hoping that i can create an at least fairly realistic depiction of a relationship where the participants both struggle with mental health, because i've had personal experience in that area. also it's not exclusively about e and R's relationship--les amis will play just as much of a role in this story because it's their fierce friendship that drew me into the fandom in the first place.
> 
> obviously if you've read my tags: trigger warning for anxiety, depression, suicidal thoughts maybe, excessive alcohol consumption/alcohol abuse, etc. it's going to be dark at some points but there will be lots of good times too hopefully. i haven't really planned it all out but if you're along for the ride then thank you! and i'm happy you're here.

“Tell me why you’re here.”

Enjolras shifted uncomfortably on the couch. “You have my entry paperwork. Can’t you just read off of that?”

Dr. Valjean smiled. “I want to hear it in your own words.”

Enjolras sat in an earth-toned office. Generic art and inspirational posters lined the walls--windswept beaches, deep forests, and the like. That awful story about footprints in the sand hung directly adjacent to Dr. Valjean’s degrees. He eyed Valjean’s doctorate in psychology and thought back to the listing online-- _Specialties: depression, anxiety disorders, PTSD._

Enjolras sighed. “It said online that one of your specialties was--anxiety disorders.” Valjean nodded encouragingly. “I’ve been a bit, um--on edge, lately.”

“Can you describe that a little more for me?”

It started harmlessly enough. During meetings, when he’d talk about the various forms of injustice going on around them, he’d get so keyed up he couldn’t sit still. Fingers always drumming on the tables, his knee, the side of his glass. Eyes flicking back and forth, trying to make eye contact with each of his friends assembled around him. Everything hit him harder, it seemed, from news stories coming in about violence in other parts of the world, right down to the self-righteous young men who made casually transphobic comments in his gender studies class.

For a while, it was okay--he thought he was just feeling particularly passionate lately--but then, at some point, it wasn’t. He really couldn’t sit still. His mouth would go dry, his hands would shake. Reading the headlines in the morning could tear him apart for the rest of the day. And it wasn’t just oppression that got him going anymore--it was anything from an upcoming assignment to coming too close to a stranger on the street. It was only when Courfeyrac and Combeferre came home one night and found him curled in bed, shaking and sweating and unable to breathe, that he knew he needed to do something about it. One panic attack could be easily explained away as an overload of stress, but it was becoming too difficult to hide the increasingly debilitating symptoms from his roommates and his friends.

He relayed this information to Dr. Valjean as briefly as possible, and when it all came tumbling off his chest (it did feel good to tell someone, he had to admit), he looked up. The words came out before he could stop them. “This--this isn’t me. This isn’t who I am. I want it to go away.”

“Well, you’ve taken an incredibly brave step to seek help, and I’m proud of you for that,” said Valjean. “These things can take time and effort to solve, though. They aren’t going to go away all at once, as much as we’d like them to.”

Enjolras sighed and sank deep into the couch. It was going to be a long fifty minutes.

After the appointment, Dr. Valjean directed Enjolras to the front desk to schedule another, in three weeks. A dark haired boy was leaning over the counter, talking to the only receptionist the office seemed to have, so Enjolras waited. The boy twisted an arm back without turning, digging in the back pocket of his jeans for a few crumpled bills. He handed them to the receptionist and mumbled “see you next week” before turning hastily on his heel. Enjolras realized too late he’d been inching closer and closer to the dark haired boy--when he turned, they were face to face.

The boy jumped, and looked cautiously up at Enjolras. The held eye contact enough for Enjolras to note that the boy’s eyes were very large and very red. Then he pushed past him and headed out the door.

Enjolras stepped out of the office with a crisp business card in his hand, the date and time of his next appointment written in neat letters across it. Fall was in full swing and he buttoned up the front of his jacket to keep out the gusty chill.

“Do you always stand so close to people in line?” a voice said, to his right.

Now it was Enjolras’s turn to jump. The dark haired boy was leaning against one of the stone half-walls that served as ornamentation in front of the office, a cigarette glowing between his teeth.

Enjolras frowned. “I don’t think you can smoke here.”

Dark Haired Boy waved his hand dismissively. “They know me here. I’m a loyal customer.” He took a long drag and shook a box of cigarettes in Enjolras’s direction. “Want one?” he said at last, smoke floating between his lips.

Enjolras shook his head. “I don’t smoke.”

“Ah. Smart decision. Maybe you should indulge every once in a while, though. You look tense.” He glanced at Enjolras, and Enjolras couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw the boy’s eyes move up and down the length of his body.

It wasn’t a predatory look, but all the same, Enjolras was suddenly self-conscious. “I’m not tense,” he said, crossing his arms.

Dark Haired Boy laughed, a low, hoarse sound in the back of his throat. “The very fact that you crossed your arms when you said that proves you’re wrong. You’re protecting yourself. I get it. It’s okay.” He glanced Enjolras’s way again, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So, you go to school up the road?”

“You mean the university?”

“Yeah.”

Enjolras shifted, pulled his coat tighter around him. “I do. How’d you know that?”

“I’ve seen you a few times around campus.”

“Really?” Enjolras replied. “I’ve never seen you.”

Dark Haired Boy’s face fell slightly and Enjolras realized too late how that must have sounded. But Dark Haired Boy recovered quickly, the smile was back in place so smoothly that Enjolras wondered if he had imagined the whole thing.

“Yeah, well, I keep to myself. I’m almost always in or around the art building,” he said, crushing his cigarette butt beneath his foot. “Well, this has been sufficiently weird. Good luck, by the way. Feel better soon, and all that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Usually, when someone visits a therapist, they could use some well wishes. I just wanted to make sure you heard those things, in case nobody else tells you.” Dark Haired Boy turned towards him, the wind whipping his curls out of his face, and suddenly all Enjolras could see were his eyes. They were less red now, and irises of pale grey-blue blinked up at him. “Look, the first appointment is always awkward. But Dr. Valjean’s great, he really is.”

“And who could resist his oh-so-inspirational ‘footprints in the sand’ poster?” Enjolras said, rolling his eyes.

Dark Haired Boy laughed then, genuinely, his eyes lighting up. “There’s something we agree on. You’re funny, too, huh? A deadly combination.”

“Funny and what?”

Dark Haired Boy looked down. “Uh. Nothing. I’ll see you later, uh--”

“Enjolras.”

Dark Haired Boy smiled. “I’ll see you later, Enjolras.”

And just like that, he was gone, literally running down the sidewalk away from Enjolras. He wanted to call after him, to get his name, but the wind was too strong, and anyway, _I’ll see you later?_ What did that even mean? It was a big city. What were the chances they’d ever meet again?

****\---** **

They met again. Alarmingly soon after their first encounter, actually.

Enjolras sat at a table in the middle of the Cafe Musain’s back room, his head buried in a notebook as he prepared the itinerary for that day’s meeting. The room was supposed to be reserve-only for parties and the like but it was used almost exclusively by Enjolras and his friends. The staff had turned a blind eye long ago, especially now that Joly and Bossuet were seeing one of the servers.

A steady drizzle greyed the windows over and his friends trickled in shaking the dampness from their clothes and hair. They gave various greetings to him and Enjolras occasionally lifted his head to say something back.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac came in together, and took up their usual spots on either side of him. Combeferre placed a stack of papers in front of him. “The new flyers. What do you think?”

Enjolras examined one of the papers. **WANT TO CHANGE THE WORLD?** they read. **YOU HAVE THE POWER. JOIN LES AMIS d’ABC. TUESDAYS, CAFE MUSAIN, 7PM.**

“They’re perfect,” he said. “Great job, you two.”

Courfeyrac grinned sheepishly. “‘Ferre did most of the work, if I’m being honest.”

“Why does that not surprise me.”

Combeferre, to Enjolras’s left, shifted in his seat. “So.”

“Mm?” said Enjolras, back to the itinerary.

“Where were you yesterday afternoon?”

Enjolras’s hand froze, hovering over the page. “What do you mean?”

Courfeyrac nudged him. “The three of us were supposed to grab lunch. We sent you a few texts.”

 _Caught._ Enjolras’s mind raced. “I was--in the library,” he finally squeaked. “I got so caught up in studying for politics that it completely slipped my mind. And my phone was off so I wouldn’t get distracted. I’m sorry.” He bent back over the notebook, doing his best to feign nonchalance, but he knew full well Courfeyrac and Combeferre were exchanging Significant Looks behind his back.

But before they could press him, a pink umbrella slammed down on the table, scattering drops of water everywhere.

“Jehan!” Enjolras cried, scooping the flyers up protectively before he could do any more damage.

“‘Sup, Buttercup? Guess what? I brought you a recruit.” Jehan beamed proudly behind his overgrown fringe and jabbed a thumb vaguely behind him. Enjolras looked.

And, _Jesus Christ._ It was Dark Haired Boy. He was hovering in the doorway, half-turned away, looking behind him.

“Grantaire! Hey, over here!” Jehan called. Dark Haired Boy turned around. _Grantaire._ Enjolras tasted the name in his mouth, his lips forming the syllables silently before he even realized what he was doing.

Dark Haired Boy--Grantaire--ambled over to them and raised his eyebrows in recognition. “Well, would you look at that,” he said.

“Grantaire, this is Enjolras. He’s kind of the leader of this outfit. And Enjolras, Grantaire--artist extraordinaire,” Jehan said with a flourish. “We’ve got life drawing together. He’s much better than I am.”

“Aw, no, I’m really not,” Grantaire said, ducking his head modestly. He turned to Enjolras, looking up from damp curls, and held out a hand for him to shake. He was looking at Enjolras hesitantly, as if he were expecting some kind of recognition in return. But he couldn’t--how could he explain how they knew each other?

“Good to meet you,” Enjolras said, shaking his hand stiffly. “Always nice to have a new face at a meeting.”

Grantaire’s smile stayed on his face, but abruptly left his eyes.

There was an awkward pause, but Enjolras soldiered on. “Uh. This is Combeferre and Courfeyrac,” he said, gesturing on either side of himself.

“A pleasure,” Combeferre said, shaking his hand. Courfeyrac skipped the handshake altogether and rounded the table to throw an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders. “Come here, you,” he said affectionately. “I met Grantaire through Jehan,” he explained, to Enjolras’s questioning look. “And I have a feeling today’s meeting is going to be--interesting,” he said, looking back and forth between Enjolras and Grantaire.

Enjolras frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” But then Combeferre nudged him and pointed to his watch. It was already 7:03, they’d lost time. Enjolras waved the small crowd around him to their seats. “Let’s get started!” he called out, and he waited until he had their attention. It never took long.

“Okay, so. First order of business. The new flyers are in.” He held one up, while Combeferre passed a couple around. “And I think we can all agree that they look great, so let’s thank Combeferre and Courfeyrac for their hard work putting these together.” He led a round of applause, which quickly devolved into whoops and hollers, thanks to Bahorel. “If any of you would like to volunteer to help distribute these, there’s a sign-up on the--”

“Question.”

Enjolras looked up. His eyes darted from person to person until they fell on Grantaire, in the very back, his hand slightly raised as if they were back in elementary school. “Yes, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, and the others turned to look at him.

“What are these flyers for, exactly?” he asked.

Enjolras blinked. “They’re to advertise our organization.”

“To get people to show up, yeah?”

“Yes,” Enjolras replied, stifling a sigh. How hard was it to understand?

“Well, then,” Grantaire mused, studying the flyer in his hand. “Forgive me, and I know you worked hard on these, but aren’t they a bit...vague?”

“Vague?” Enjolras parroted.

“Yeah. I mean, it doesn’t say anything about you. Your aims. What you actually do. Nothing.”

“It’s just to garner interest. People find out what it’s about when they show up.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows doubtfully. “I don’t know about you, but generally, when I go places, I like to know what I’m about to walk into. What is it you do, anyway?”

“We--talk about important issues. Oppression. Injustice. In many areas of society. We organize--we organize rallies, protests. We raise awareness.” Suddenly, everyone in the room had turned to stare at him. To watch him flounder. Enjolras fought to control his breathing.

“Ah, okay,” Grantaire said, leaning back in his chair. “You’re one of those organizations that talk about getting things done and never actually do them.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Enjolras exclaimed, pounding a fist onto the table. Combeferre laid his hand lightly on Enjolras’s, and Enjolras knew he was getting too intense. He took a breath. “Creating a dialogue for these things that don’t get talked about is immensely important. We’re raising awareness, we’re forcing people to question and reevaluate their views. We’ve had a number of successes with our rallies, and I think we’ve really been instrumental in changing people’s minds around here.”

“And that’s all well and good,” Grantaire countered, “but talking only gets you so far. If you truly want to help people, you have to take action. Real, measurable action. Donate stuff to the local LGBT shelter, for instance. Serve food at a soup kitchen. Raise money for a reputable charity--it looks like a lot of you could spare a penny or two. Because, these oppressed people? They need more than just pretty words. They don’t need to be treated like causes, they need to be treated like human beings.”

Grantaire had the room’s full attention by this point, but when he noticed this, he shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. “That’s what I think, anyway,” he said.

The rest of the meeting went about the same, with Grantaire interjecting and Enjolras arguing with him. They didn’t cover nearly the amount of topics Enjolras intended to cover, and the whole thing left Enjolras gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turned white.

After it was all over, he turned to Courfeyrac. “Is this what you meant by interesting?” he practically growled.

Courfeyrac put his hands up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Enjolras, I’m sorry,” came a voice from behind him, and Jehan took hold of his hand. “I should have warned you. He’s got a quick tongue. Likes to stir things up a little bit. I hope you aren’t--”

“It’s fine,” Enjolras said. “Really. It’s fine. What kind of leader am I if I can’t stand up to a little debate?” He laughed a little, but he still felt unsettled. _Had_ he stood up to Grantaire’s contradictions? Because he couldn’t help thinking that Grantaire had made him look like a fool.

“That’s good,” Jehan said, his shoulders relaxing. “Listen, we’re going out in a minute. You in?”

“Sure,” Enjolras said, but his response got lost in Courfeyrac’s enthusiastic agreement.

Enjolras followed Jehan and the others out of the Musain and onto the train, where a small current of panic spiked in his chest as he realized that they were going _out_ out. He reached over Courfeyrac’s lap and tapped Jehan’s shoulder. “Where are we going, anyway?”

But Jehan just laughed and said, “Wherever the night takes us.” He turned back to the person he was talking to, and Enjolras realized, with a jolt, that it was Grantaire.

****\---** **

They ended up in a crowded little club downtown, with music so loud Enjolras could feel it in his heart. The place was wall-to-wall people that Enjolras attempted to edge around as the group made its way to the bar. Several of them ordered shots but Enjolras just stuck to a beer, one that he would nurse all night so nobody asked him to drink. After they had talked awhile--or attempted to talk, yelling over the music and misunderstanding the majority of what was said between them--Bahorel led the group out onto the dance floor. Enjolras watched as his friends melted into the frenzy of color and light.

After a while, he became aware of someone watching him. And-- _Christ_ \--it was Grantaire. Enjolras glanced over, and Grantaire quickly averted his eyes. He was keeping a healthy distance, and Enjolras guessed he was probably mad at him for acting like they were meeting for the first time in the Musain.

Enjolras weighed the benefits of going over there and apologizing. Grantaire seemed to be getting along with the rest of the group remarkably well, and if tonight was anything to go off of, they’d probably be seeing more of him. He really ought to make nice and get over it, he supposed. He marched over to Grantaire, fully ready to explain himself gracefully. But when Grantaire looked at him, the words died in Enjolras’s mouth.

He was holding a drink loosely, those storm-colored eyes glazed over by what was probably a combination of the alcohol consumed here and in the Musain. He looked...comfortable. There was no other way to put it. And the light fell across his face in such a way that it turned gradually from green, to purple, to pink, to blue and back again. How could a face Enjolras had found to be so infuriating an hour ago be so... _pleasant_ now?

It must have been the light.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” Grantaire asked, when Enjolras failed to form any words.

Enjolras pulled himself back out of his thoughts. “Not really my thing. Too many people.”

“Ah. I see.” Grantaire stared into his drink.

“Look,” Enjolras finally managed. “About before. I acted like you were a stranger because I didn’t want to explain where I’d met you. The others...they don’t know that I went to see someone. They don’t even know that anything’s wrong. And I’d really like to keep it that way.”

There was a silence for a moment, or rather, the blasting music was all that could be heard. Grantaire turned to him. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said. “Surely you know that.”

 _Of course. But it’s different when it’s_ you _and you can’t function and you’re afraid of everything and you have to somehow_ lead an activist organization _and how can you do that when just being too close to someone could send you into a panic?_ It was too loud to say everything that was screaming in his brain and how could he, anyway, to a boy he’d only met a few days ago? He couldn’t. So he just nodded.

At that moment a noticeably tipsy Jehan ran up to the two of them. “Come dance with us!” he pleaded them both, taking their hands and pulling impressively hard for someone his size.

Enjolras wrenched his hand out of Jehan’s grasp, to which Jehan pouted before focusing his efforts on Grantaire. Grantaire laughed and pushed Jehan off of him. “One second,” he said. Before Enjolras knew what was happening Grantaire had drawn him close and stood on tiptoe so that his mouth reached Enjolras’s ear.

“There’s an exit in the back, by the bathrooms,” he said, and Enjolras could smell cigarettes and alcohol on his breath. “Not a lot of people go back there. In case you need some space.”

Enjolras stared at him. “Thank you,” he finally spluttered. Grantaire nodded and let Jehan drag him onto the dance floor.

Enjolras stood there, leaning against the bar. Grantaire barely knew him, and yet he was already looking out for him. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad having someone in the group who knew about how he was feeling. Maybe.

Then he caught sight of Grantaire on the dance floor. He had completely let loose. He moved elegantly, like a real dancer, limbs twisting around him, hips swaying, curls flying. He tossed his hair back and there were those eyes. Gazing out across the club to--was Grantaire looking at him?

It must have been the light.

****  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [this](http://www.poetseers.org/the-great-poets/misc-2/footprints-in-the-sand/) is "footprints in the sand." it's usually found printed on photos of the beach and hanging in doctors' offices. i don't mean any offense to religious folks!! but i do think both enjolras and grantaire would have found it a little bit hokey. :)
> 
> come talk to me on [tumblr](http://ghostaires.tumblr.com) if you have any suggestions for this fic or just to say hi! thank you for reading!


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